Hearts so Starving
by Li-Naga
Summary: Historical!AU The U.S Embassy is closing in Russia and it is time to say goodbye. As famine ravages Russia's land America decides it is time to see him once again. Even if they still aren't on good terms. Hello's and goodbye's have always been bittersweet in their own way.


Tawny, golden hairs would occasionally float to the floor like oceanic drift. One of America's hands was buried in his messy hair pulling it taut like guitar strings. Every time the dull strands would slip through his fingers he would pull out a few thin hairs like a sieve. They caught a few flecks of light streaming in from the shaded window before falling to the ground like the others- nearly becoming invisible against the grain of the wood.

He tilted his head back and dribbled some more of the foul, pungent poison into his dry mouth. America gagged and coughed; spilling some of his drink onto the wood flooring again. Alcohol never really was his thing and no matter how much he drowned himself in it he just kept thinking anyways… there was no point. Sometimes he wished he were human. They forgot things so easily it seemed. He groaned again as his head throbbed with the impact of his wooden desk. The memories were all too vivid.

* * *

Confused, tired violet eyes. The trials and tribulations were already starting to show, yet the 20th century was just beginning.

"Where are you going?" America could physically feel something tugging at his heart strings and his eyes became a little brighter before dimming down a bit. He wanted to say goodbye one last time, but he was the last thing that he hoped to see. He snapped his suitcase shut with finality and turned around to see someone that he didn't quite remember in a way. The warm burn of tears was coming up the deep of his throat but he couldn't cry now and he wouldn't wipe away his own tears. He caught himself shaking; failing to stop.

Russia saw the small unmistakable tremble that seemed to start up whenever the other tried to hide. America's free hand traveled to the nape of his neck where it was buried in the honey-colored hair there. He'd pull at it sometimes when he was nervous or frustrated.

Neither said a word for a while. They stared; sky blue and cloudy violet. Gauging their reactions. America started pulling at his hair at some point and Russia looked more and more worried as time passed. His lips pursed in a frown; eyebrows knitted. America stiffened as Russia stepped closer, uttering a small "Don't. Don't move. I wasn't supposed t-to see you today." He cursed the tremble in his voice before cursing the few tears that did slip out of his eyes leaving ugly tracks like evidence. The hand that had been entangled in his hair went to wipe away the trails before thinking better of it and falling uselessly to his side.

"Do you," the other nation paused to lick his cold-chapped lips. "Do you regret coming?" Russia inquired, his hands stuffed in his long coat pockets. He shrunk in on himself thinking the worst. Hands were shrugged out of his pockets and rubbed. Angry scars, scabbed-over cuts, pink burn wounds that looked characteristically of cigarettes' stubs.

'_But Ivan doesn't smoke. He hates the smell._' A disgusting thought burned its way into America's head._ 'Torture. Don't leave him. You're not supposed to see him like this. You're not supposed to let the hurt happen. Fix him.' _

"Ivan…" America dropped his suitcase full of paperwork and made his way over to the crestfallen nation. He took Ivan's hands into his and felt them. Stiff from the cold already and rough just like the land. He squeezed them between his warmer halves and felt the man above him sigh as he blew warm breath on them- caressing them with all of his care. "I just had to say goodbye. Times are so…different now... strange now." '_Nations fall so quickly.'_

America leaned up and captured those snow-cracked lips; savoring every still moment like an old picture even though the response was weak and hesitant. He watched tired eyes widen before collapsing themselves ever so slowly; a few glistening tears forming at the seams. America was the one to pull away bitterly, only to bury his face into the ever-present scarf with a scent more earthly than sweet, and unlike when they'd first become friends so long ago. In a time much simpler, more peaceful, than this.

Stiff arms wrapped around his chest in return-_love_. Softly at first before firming up-_desperation_. As much as they enjoyed this sweet double embrace they knew their time would soon be cut so short. Time cut so unbelievably short and so suddenly.

"Goodbye, Ivan." Ivan shook his head softly and sighed-_it hurts_. He gave America another reassuring squeeze before saying the last few words...

"Until we meet again, Fredka." …that would drive him mad with sadness. They might not meet again and will it even be right if they do? He wrung his hands into the rags of Ivan's long coat furiously and the air between them grew cold with grief when he finally did pull away; the sound was tearing like Velcro. The ghost of Ivan's embrace did not decide to fade away so easily. Choosing to linger and haunt him. Appearing in dreams soon forgotten and memories bleached and faded.

He walked right out of the U.S Embassy without looking back-without so much as a glance and something broke. Why didn't he look back when his entirety was begging to? The most heartbreaking wail reached his ears just as the doors snapped shut behind him and he nearly ran back-the snow crunching loud underfoot. He didn't see Russia when he slammed his hands against the locked doors. Only the darkened, frosted windows that showed his own ghastly reflection.

He pressed his face against the glass until he had to close his eyes and he saw stars. Russia's fuzzy outline falling to the ground his face frozen like his heart. He backed up and opened his eyes again. This time all that he saw was the worn black suitcase on the floor of the U.S Embassy. Its mouth open and important Russian-American Relations documentation splayed on the floor around it.

* * *

Alfred grimaced as he thought back to that last thought. His boss had yelled at him for forgetting all the important documentation and not going back to retrieve it when he could have. The quietness of the room seemed to ring so loud in his ears with bitter-sweet memories. He hadn't seen Russia in years and he wasn't even sure if his Russia still existed. Recently he'd heard the words "Soviet Union" thrown around more. He growled low in his throat at the thought of someone else taking Russia's place. They shouldn't change his name. Humans and their stupid political accuracies.

He rasped out a small "thanks" as one of his assistants- probably Adam- slapped a newspaper onto his head. He had to take his hand out of his hair to grab it before it flew away and fell apart. He caught the year at the corner: 1922. Had it only been three years? It seemed to short.

Immediately he went to the page with Russia's current news. Famine had been ravaging the already torn up land. Starvation on top of bloody evolution. He wondered if Russia was still sane. Was his new government treating him well or casting him aside like a useless charge? Something inside told him the latter.

He suddenly needed to see him, though his boss had told him to cut all political ties he could just go as a non-political helper right? His people had been giving humanitarian assistance since the past year after all. He'd do that.

He set his poison down on the ground and got up- shrugging his coat off the back of his chair and shrugging it on himself before thinking better and stripping instead. If he was going to go see Russia, he would go looking presentable. He wrote a note and set it on his desk for his assistants to prepare supplies and walked into the small bathroom to get cleaned up.

* * *

Sneaking in had been easy enough. Russia lived in the countryside so neighbors couldn't question why a strangely dressed blonde man was stuffing bulky bags through a large window before clambering in himself.

His boots had gotten caught on the windowsill and he fell face first onto the rough wooden flooring; yelping loudly when he felt the wire frame of his glasses pressing into his likely frost-bitten face. The rest of his body slithered behind to join him on the floor as well.

"Alfred?…" A wispy unrecognizable voice breathed out followed by inaudible Russian grumblings. Alfred's head snapped up in surprise. He saw a weird form on the ground much like he was at the moment. Its face was turned towards him but the eyes were shut. He scrambled over to inspect it.

It…was Russia…but, not. He wasn't wearing his usual coat- instead a thin shirt with a gold star embroidered on it. Even his beloved scarf wasn't around him and shiny scars that were from times past showed prominently instead. He hefted up the weakened man and was so surprised at how light he was he nearly dropped him.

Alfred set him down on the couch in the living room seeing as that was one of the few pieces of furniture that occupied the barren house and there were already dull, worn blankets scattered on it. He lowered him softly and would have piled more than two layers of blankets on his patient had there been more available. Damn, he should have brought blankets-should've thought more.

"Did you come to see me?" A smiling pair of dulled purple eyes revealed themselves to him under heavy lids. It looked like it took a lot of effort from the bed-ridden nation just to keep them open.

"No, I came to feed you. Now open up." Alfred had gotten out some soup from a thermos and offered the steaming cup to his charge.

"I'm hungry, but I can't get up." Ivan chuckled as his friend from up above seemed exasperated at this. He groaned a bit in annoyance as his body was roughly handled again before being propped up against the back of the couch. Immediately a tin cup full of soup was shoved under his nose. The warm vapors felt nice on his flushed and icy cheeks, and he took in a nice breath of the- what was it? Beef soup?-before taking a long drink. It was a bit salty like brine but that only meant that America had made it himself. Always putting too much sodium on everything even when he was younger. His sentimentality would kill him someday. More brine was stuffed into his mouth. It tasted strange but he was too famished to care.

"I want to sleep." Ivan slumped into the couch and closed his eyes. He still accepted the last few sips of the stew that was thrust onto him before Alfred finally called it quits and put it away.

Alfred got up and shivered a bit. The entire house felt like a walk-in freezer. He looked at Ivan's lanky, malnourished form, the large bags under his eyes, the fever-induced flush that started at the apples of his cheeks and disappeared under his shirt and sighed. Would Ivan still be wasting away on the ground had he not felt the sudden pull to come here? He didn't want to think about it. He was already a year late.

He stared at the pocket-sized gold star on his chest and a bad feeling coursed through him, though he ignored it for the time being. The thought of leaving was making its way into his mind before a hand shot out and grabbed his coat with more strength than he knew Russia was capable of at the moment.

"I know what you're thinking." He had to lean in to hear Russia's whispers. "You say goodbye so unconventionally, Fredka. Did you know how much I wanted you to look back at me when you left? Was it your stupid American pride? Was it your guilt-leaving me for dead? Did you honestly think it would _save me_ the _pain_?" The words became heavier and louder as his grip became tighter and tighter. There was so much bitterness in his voice that Russia himself could taste it. Vile and poisonous.

"Russia, I..shit!" He cursed as Russia yanked him onto the couch.

"Don't call me that! MY NAME ISN'T RUSSIA. It's…" Ivan's eyes were wild though his grip was finally weakening. He was too sick to be exerting this much energy. He looked paler than he did just seconds before.

"Ivan, Ivan." Alfred shushed him as best as he could smothering his words back into his mouth. "Ok, ok. You're Ivan. You'll always be Ivan ok." An uneasy feeling curdled in his belly as Ivan clutched the golden star on his chest and shaking his head before resting once more- the fight trickling out of him quickly. They both fell onto the tiny couch in an awkward position where neither were very comfortable.

Ivan shifted a bit under him until they settled nicely. Warmth bloomed between them instantly and they both took this as an incentive to wrap themselves tightly in each other. Ivan's arms went to hug Alfred's lower back and Alfred took the chance to snuggle nicely into the skinnier, yet broad chest uncertainly. Those violet eyes had looked so distant. So different.

"See you soon." Ivan yawned and promptly drifted off.

Alfred stayed awake for a few more hours. His thoughts keeping him awake. "Soviet Union." He got angrier as that stupid name kept bouncing around in his head. Soviet Union. He snarled without meaning to. They were trying to destroy him- destroy Ivan and tear him apart. Torture him and use him. Starve him and kill his people. He seethed and Ivan woke up suddenly.

Ivan's eyes snapped open in alarm as he felt nails digging into his scalp. He struggled to push Alfred off of him but he was too weak. "ALFRED!" His voice came out hoarse and dry. The other nation gasped as he realized what he was doing. Hurriedly, he pulled his hand away and Ivan whimpered in pain clutching his head and curling in on himself.

Flecks of red blood stained Alfred's short finger tips and collected under his nails. "Oh my god, Ivan! I'm sorry! Ivan, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you! Ivan, look, I'm sorry!" He pleaded to the huddled form on the couch.

"You're always SORRY! You never mean to hurt me but you do! All the time! I CAN'T CONTROL WHAT'S HAPPENING AMERICA! I CAN'T DO ANYTHING! My people are starving, innocent children perishing like flies! So many of them! Bodies reeking of yellow sick and maggots! Men lying down for a quick rest only to never WAKE UP! And now the one person that I thought was my friend, the person who I thought loved me abandoned me for THREE YEARS thinking it would be ok. Thinking you could come back and things would be the same. Things will NEVER be the same!" Ivan ignored the pangs of his hunger and the strain of his muscles to tackle the blonde to the ground.

America choked as his air supply was constricted by bony, bruised hands. He hacked and coughed in surprise before ripping them away. "Fuck you! You thought I got off scotch free, huh? I was ordered to cut ties with you, you asshole! Stop blaming me like it's my fault! It's not my fucking fault, you dumbass so stop it! Stop lying to me!" America rolled them over so he was on top and sobbed loudly once he registered the sting in his hand and the redness on the pale nation's angry face.

"Look at what you made me do!" He wept over him as Ivan groaned in pain. Alfred's tears would drip onto Ivan's face where they would mix together before falling silently to the hard wood floor.

Ivan looked away before sighing out. "I'm sorry. Let's stop speaking about this please?" He looked back up into watery blue eyes and trembling lips. Alfred stared hard into those eyes that didn't seem to want to meet his. He was still so angry, but he surrendered eventually. Carefully this time, he lifted Ivan off the ground and back onto the couch once again. A sense of déjà vu washed over him again as he looked him over.

An overwhelming wave of emotion bit through him like a bullet leaving holes where his heart was. This fragile peace between them wouldn't last forever. Eventually Russia would cease in famine and Alfred would have to leave back to his land empty handed with their relationship unstable and in tatters. The Fates weren't in either of their favors recently.

And so America knelt next to his ashen hair and began to card his fingers through them- avoiding the small flecks of blood as best as he could. Every once in a while his fingers would get caught in a knot and he would work slowly to disentangle the soft strands from each other-only half succeeding in not causing Ivan any mild discomfort. He pecked the crown of the sleeping bear's head before retreating to the kitchen to make more soup for when Ivan woke up in the morning; hungry, no doubt.


End file.
